


maybe this time

by canis_argentum



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Era, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, World of Ruin, good ending, its about the y e a r n i n g, no beta we die like men, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22027792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_argentum/pseuds/canis_argentum
Summary: Loving Noctis is easy. Telling him is so,sohard.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 31
Kudos: 147
Collections: 2019 Holiday Exchange





	maybe this time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MathClassWarfare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathClassWarfare/gifts).



> My fic for the 2019 Book Club Server Holiday Fic Exchange-- I've been so honored to be a part of this server; everyone is so nice, and I'm so excited to get to do an exchange like this!
> 
> Also very excited to write Promptis, pining over each other in diners throughout the years.
> 
> Merry Holidays to you, MCW! I hope you enjoy your boys!

For Prompto and Prompto  _ only _ would Noctis wake up before sunrise. 

He’s still not one hundred percent sure he’s actually awake, but he’s definitely sure he’s sitting, slumped in a diner booth, across from Prompto, who is far too awake for an hour where it’s still dark outside. Somewhere in his foggy brain, he remembers a flurry of text messages from Prompto the night before— something about the sunrise the next morning predicted to be “ _ the best photo-op ever, dude _ ”, and Noctis rejecting the idea because "5:00am was too damned _ early, _ Prompto."

It had been followed by a Cactchat of Prompto pouting heavily and promising him a trip to their favorite diner. Noctis, for all his princely powers, was only human; he’d given in pretty quickly after that.

_ The Insomniac  _ is quiet— Noctis would hope so at ass-crack-before-dawn in the morning— except for the college age waitress who is definitely downing shots of espresso between tasks and the man at the counter hunched over too much bacon. He feels an intense kinship with both of them, especially against Prompto’s seemingly-impossible amounts of energy.

Prompto babbles as they finish up their breakfast, the waitress giving him a final cup of coffee with the bill as he moves on to the topic of lenses and lighting. He has enough energy for the both of them, which is good because Noctis is definitely slumping further and further into the booth, trying to focus on Prompto to keep himself awake. He watches through half-open eyes as Prompto pours a stupid amount of creamer into his coffee, looks up at him, and then grins brightly. 

In the dull, artificial light of the 5:23 am diner, it’s blinding. 

Noctis thinks he loves it.

There’s a lot he likes about Prompto. The video games and comic books are fun, and so are the jokes that they can fire back and forth with no effort. But mostly, it's the easy energy that comes with everything else— the way that Prompto, for all his trouble with their high school classes, just  _ gets it _ . Noctis never has to fully voice his worries and Prompto is there to crack a joke or even lend an ear on the rare occasions that Noctis actually wants to talk about it. It's intuitive— in a way that Ignis and Gladio have picked up over the years, but Prompto managed it in just months. 

The warmth of it all has been plaguing him for years, trapped inside his ribs and stirring a little hotter each time Prompto does something so incredibly  _ Prompto _ , like humming under his breath as he surfs Chocobook, bouncing his leg on the back of Noctis’ chair in class— the little things that all add up until Noctis is lying awake at 2am, burning from his heart-outward as Prompto stays up just to talk him through the aftermath of a nightmare because “ _ seriously, anytime, Noct” _ . 

For the most part, Noctis has kept it to himself. Gladio has teased in his affectionate-asshole sort of way, and Noctis  _ knows _ Ignis is too damn observant to have missed the way he goes breathless for the tiny habits and familiar touches, but no one really  _ knows _ . It’s a hope— a fantasy at best— and Noctis doesn’t think he can afford the way the cold will settle into his bones if he feeds the flames only to have them snuffed out. 

Watching Prompto shine golden in the florescent diner lighting makes him want to do otherwise. It makes him want to risk their easy friendship and their late night talks in hopes of gaining something more. The selfish words build up inside him and threaten to tumble off his tongue, confessing everything to Prompto as he laughs, the light in his eyes glowing and making Noctis' chest squeeze.

He opens his mouth, hoping that the words will free themselves from under the lump in his throat, ready to speak, because he  _ wants this _ , damn it, and  _ maybe _ — 

_ Something  _ rockets into his mouth. 

Flinching, he looks at Prompto, who is cackling, unwrapped straw against his lips while the paper wrapper sticks to Noctis’ tongue. 

“ _ Dude _ —!”

“I think you mean  _ ‘Nice shot, Prom!’  _ or ‘ _ You’re so great at aiming, Prom, how  _ **_do_ ** _ you do it?’”  _ Prompto grins and Noctis spits the straw wrapper from his mouth with feigned disgust. 

“I hate you,” he says, deadpan. 

It’s the exact opposite of everything he wants to say and it makes his tongue buzz. He wants to take it back, spit it out again as the truth, follow the trail of the straw wrapper right to Prompto's lips,  _ damn it all _ .

“Hate you too, Noct,” Prompto smiles, too genuine and bright for so early and it makes Noctis want to curl up inside the warmth and live there. The fire under his ribs starts up again, all his organs used as kindling, and in that moment he knows that he will never be able to douse it. 

There’s a second, no longer than a blink, where Noctis thinks that maybe he can follow through, the feeling in his chest nearly overflowing, but it’s gone again as Prompto stands up, slapping Noctis’ arm and throwing a handful of yen down on the table.

“C’mon! We’re gonna miss it and the view is supposed to be  _ amazing~ _ ,” Prompto says, glancing out towards the window, where the sky is just beginning to turn pink at its base. 

It matches the flush in Noctis' cheeks, but he pulls himself away from the thoughts and the hopes and stares at Prompto for just a moment longer before blinking away the golden halo that seems to radiate from his best friend like a sunrise itself.

"Yeah, yeah," Noctis smiles, excusing himself from the booth to follow after Prompto. "I'm sure it will be."

* * *

They pile into the Crow's Nest, four strong, covered in blood (not their own— mostly) and dirt, and give Prompto the satisfaction of slapping the Hunter's flyer down on the ugly laminate counter in front of the tipster. 

"Behemoth slayed," Noctis grins. 

"That's a mighty fine job you boys have done," says the man, who's balding along his temples and, given the cluster of local beast flyers tacked up on the board behind him, Prompto can't blame him. "Who dealt the final blow?"

His gaze trails along the four of them and settles on Gladio, who simply shakes his head and shrugs in Prompto's direction. "Ask the kid."

“So you’re the mighty slayer, huh?”

Prompto flushes and waves a hand a little dismissively, suddenly taken aback by the praise and attention. Despite it, he grins, albeit nervously. “Team effort, y’know? I just got the lucky shot!”

“Regardless,” Ignis speaks up, giving Prompto a genuine smile that makes his heart leap. “Why don’t we celebrate with a meal out.”

“Iggy, letting us eat out at a diner?” Prompto gasps dramatically, finding it easy to fall into his joking habits against the discomfort of compliments he’s not sure he deserves. “The world’s gotta be ending.”

“It’s cause you deserve it, Prom,” Noctis says, grinning and nudging him before heading towards one of the booths by the window. Prompto feels his heart soar, the remains of the touch buzzing on his shoulder and short-circuiting his brain. He manages to reboot himself quickly and follows after Noctis, a jump to his step as he hops into the plush booth across from his best friend. Gladio and Ignis follow, and the diner owner takes their order despite their dirty clothes and building rapport of quips and jokes with one another.

Over dinner, Noctis leans forward, mouth full of fries, and gestures to Prompto’s camera, which is lovingly set against the wall on a napkin. 

"You get any cool pictures? Lemme see." 

Prompto wipes the grease from his hands (ew) and tosses the napkin to the side before picking up his camera, thumbing through the pictures on the viewing screen. There are a few pictures of the behemoth, roaring against the backdrop of an afternoon sky, a few of Ignis and Gladio brandishing weapons against their opponent, and admittedly, a few of bushes that Prompto only managed to snap as he tumbled out of the way. The majority are of Noctis. It’s no surprise, but he still flushes as he hands the camera over to his friend.

“Hey, great shot,” Gladio says. He points over Noctis’ shoulder at the picture of him, sword wedged in the leg of the behemoth as it topples over. Noctis is warping above him, a flash of blue trailing him. “This one, too.”

As they look, they finish their meal, Prompto hoping none of them notice the overarching pattern amongst his pictures. They notice, for sure— there’s no way Ignis doesn’t— but nobody says anything about it— they never do— and by the time they hand Prompto his camera back, photography skill complements abound, he’s resting comfortably in his seat with a warmness in his chest.

Outside, the sun is setting. 

"I'll go reserve us the caravan for the night." Ignis excuses himself from the table, paying their bill on the way out, and Gladio stands to follow. 

"I call first dibs on the shower," he says, tapping Noctis on the shoulder as he trails Ignis out of the diner and towards the caravan on the edge of the parking lot. Prompto watches as they disappear inside and takes the final slurp of his drink through the straw in his cup. 

He glances across the table at Noctis, who yawns and slouches back in his seat to get comfortable. 

"Might as well wait for a while," Noctis says. "He's gonna use all the hot water." 

"Awh man," Prompto whines, slumping dramatically against the table. It’s cold against his cheeks, which are unusually flushed, but it seems like they always are around Noctis. "Shouldn't ~ _ behemoth slayer _ ~ get first shower or something?" 

Noctis hums. "Good point. You could go fight him for it, y'know."

"Gladio? No way. I'd get my  _ ass _ handed to me."

"You took down a behemoth today, Prom."

"Dude," Prompto says, raising an eyebrow at Noctis. "Gladio is  _ way _ big and  _ definitely _ scarier than a behemoth."

"I'd still fight him before I'd fight Specs," Noctis mumbles, propping his elbow up on the table so he can rest his head in his hand. 

"Well  _ duh _ — I'll fight the Six before I fight Iggy, dude."

Noctis leans forward into the table, chin propped against his hand, and smiles into his palm. Prompto feels the familiar warmth of fondness creeping in under his skin, in a way that only Noctis is capable of making happen. For a moment, he just watches, absorbed in Noctis' little habits. The last bits of sunlight filter through the window and catch on his fingertips and the stray hairs that fall in his eyes. It's perfect. The lighting is perfect, the color of Noctis' eyes against the sunset are perfect, the way his lips curl half-hidden behind his hand is perfect— Noctis is perfect. 

He's always been perfect. 

And it kills Prompto a little bit every time he realizes, so often, that he is  _ not _ . 

The two of them are easy friends, but it didn’t take long for Prompto to realize that he wanted different pieces of that friendship, like stolen kisses and touches longer than the constant nudges and bumps he often affords himself. It’s selfish, he knows, but his stupid heart leaps before his equally-stupid brain. He can't help it; Noctis is a magnet of kind, genuine energy, just begging to be loved by those around him. 

Prompto’s only problem— okay, one of many problems— is that everyone around Noctis seems to be infinitely better than  _ him _ . It seems like he’s the only person in Noctis’ life that isn’t royalty or body guard or advisor or council member, raised from birth to be top of the line for the sake of protecting the Crown Prince. Meanwhile, even as a part of Noctis’ life he’s just…  _ Prompto _ . He wonders why he’s still around. In his deepest fantasies, it’s because despite everything, despite all of  _ him,  _ Noctis cares about him in the same way that he’s cared for the last too-many-years of their life. 

But that’s probably (definitely) just a fantasy, and the cold reality is that Noctis is surrounded by people who are far better than what Prompto can hope to be. Noctis has  _ options  _ and the hopeless way that Prompto looks after him across the diner or sneaks pictures of him when fishing is nothing to offer against the riches of royalty. Even if they get along well, he’s  _ still… _ just Prompto.

It's like Noctis can read his thoughts— and Prompto wouldn't be surprised if he almost could— because he clears his throat before leaning forward and saying, “Seriously though. You did great today. It's crazy how good you've gotten."

"Oh,  _ y'know _ , it's a talent," Prompto laughs, pink shading his cheeks beneath the freckles. Inside his chest, his heart thrums a little too fast. Noctis complementing sets off an electric charge in his brain every time, making it hard to think straight. 

"It is," Noctis insists.

"Honestly, it's a lot of throwing myself on the ground and screaming."

“Yeah, but you can do all of that while snapping photos? I don’t know how you make every picture of me look so badass.”

Prompto falters. It’s not hard; every picture of Noctis comes out like artwork. The lighting, the shutterspeed, the angle— all of them are just bonus skills for what’s already so  _ easy _ . 

Loving Noctis is  _ easy _ . Telling him is so, so hard.

It’s not like Prompto doesn’t  _ want  _ to tell him— Astrals he wants to tell him so bad it hurts. He’s  _ wanted  _ to tell Noctis since they were in high school together, Prompto taking every interaction he could get, in cafes and diners and arcades, listening to Noctis laugh and cover his mouth and falling just a little bit harder each and every time, hoping that  _ maybe _ , Noctis  _ wants _ , too.

“Are you kidding? You look crazy good all the time, Noct.” 

The genuinity in his voice surprises him; there’s no joke to it, no emphasis in the way that would imply “ _ as a friend, dude. _ ” It makes him waiver, but there’s a newfound surge of confidence that swells in his chest, even as his voice trembles just a little when he says, “You’re like… perfect.” 

The sun has finally slipped below the horizon, diner lit by the lamps above them and tinging Noctis’ blush a funny kind of yellow. But Prompto can still see it— the way he goes red at the ears and on his cheeks, and then he does the thing that grips Prompto’s chest the hardest: pressing his mouth into his hand to hide a smile.

“Prom, c-c’mon, that’s—”

“I mean it.” His voice shakes, but he  _ means it _ . 

He  _ said it. _

“Oh.” 

Prompto has found the words and now they won’t stop, and he fiddles with the strap on his camera, staring down at his split fingertips and dirty nails while Noctis shines under the fluorescence like some sort of God corralled in a diner booth with him. “I’ve really loved all of this, Noct— the trip, and the pictures, and—and— camping, even, but…  _ you _ ?  _ Shit,  _ I just...” 

“—I-I love you, too,” Noctis blurts. 

In the tiny confines of a diner in Nowhereseville, Lucis, Prompto feels his chest open up to make room for the way his lungs and heart swell all at once, into his throat, making his vision fuzzy. He bites his lip— hard— barely daring to hope that past the ringing in his ears, he heard Noctis correctly, 

but he  _ hopes _ , 

and  _ maybe _ — 

* * *

They don't have the time to discuss it all before the world falls apart, first becoming tragedy in Altissia, then rough metal against skin in Gralea, and finally ashes under a darkness that never lifts. The sun follows Noctis into the Crystal and Prompto finds himself wishing he could have, too. 

* * *

Prompto sits in the diner in Hammerhead and stares at the window, reflection cast in the glass against the forever-black outside. He blinks once, twice, and swears he watches his reflection follow suit just a second too-late. His eyes are wrong, he decides. That's the easiest answer. Whatever time it is— it doesn’t matter— it hasn’t mattered for five years— he doesn’t know, but he’s sure he hasn’t slept in close to twenty-four hours.

He closes his eyes and grinds the heels of his rough-gloved hands into his eyelids. The left glove is coming apart at the side seam and as he flexes his fingers tight, he can feel another stitch pop out of place. It's one more thing to add to his to-do list, which sits next to his meal on the table. Cindy had scribbled a few locations and pickups on it upon his arrival— errands to run for her and the rest of the hunters sheltering in the remains of the town.

For the most part, everybody’s gotten pretty good at the routines. The ration runs; the organized hunts that have increased over time; the way it’s expected, like clockwork, for the old relationships to wither away like the plants and the rest of the living world. It’s been a long while to adjust.

There's been a lot of time to get used to the death of the sun. 

Enough time for the demons to creep their way out of the woodwork and seep through the cracks in the earth, claiming the land as the new hell they rose from.

Enough time for the body counts on the radio to become little more than background noise, especially under the layers of favors for Cindy, the hunts, the help for whatever refugees turn up braced against the darkness.

Enough time for his freckles to fade, swallowed by sallow skin and the bags under his eyes, which seem bigger on every rare instance that he glances in a mirror. 

Enough time for him to buzz off half his hair in an undercut, fumbling for some illusion of control, and then grow it all back out because  _ some _ things should still be the same when Noct comes back— 

If Noct comes back at all.

Most of the time he can avoid thinking about it too hard, but when he lays down at night— which is really just the new word for  _ sleep _ when the night is eternal— he feels the aching in his chest, so deep and hollow that it threatens to swallow him. It’s the exact opposite of the feeling he remembers from the diner five years ago, listening to Noctis tell him he loved him too. 

Because he  _ still  _ loves Noctis; that’s the worst part of it all. He still loves the memories of a best friend and the idea of a man who was swallowed by the same cruel gods that ate the sun and left them to die in the dark. He loves Noctis, fate of it all be damned. It’s not like they haven’t  _ tried  _ to make it different, but if Prompto has learned nothing else, it’s that Bahamut is one sadistic, stubborn asshole, and of course,  _ of course _ , Prompto would have to give his heart to the gods’ favorite chess piece.

Prompto looks down to realize he's torn his to-do list into shreds, anxious thoughts making anxious fingers. 

He flicks a balled up piece of paper at the empty seat across from him and watches as it bounces off the worn leather backing, onto the floor. It might as well have traveled through a ghost.

Appetite ruined and meal untouched, he leaves the diner. 

* * *

The diner itself is destroyed, sign crumbled beneath some former demon’s weight, glass smashed in by a looter brave enough to walk the streets lined with monstrosities. Several tables are ripped up from their spot bolted into the floor, a large chunk of the counter crushed by a light post that has toppled through the glass window and into the restaurant. Somewhere in the wreckage, they find a whole plate and a booth in the corner that remains untouched by anything but dust. 

No one expects him to be awake so early in the morning, but after ten years of slumber, Noctis thinks he can afford an early morning. For Prompto. 

The easy part is over. Ardyn has been laid to rest, the kingdom is reclaimed, and the sun has made its returning voyage between the horizons. And Noctis, by the god-defying determination of Ignis, Prompto, Gladio and countless others, is still alive. 

The hard part is yet to come: rebuilding a nation from the ground up and abandoning a large portion of the political blueprints along the way. It's no secret that the healing will take more than simple patch jobs on cracked windows and toppled bridges; the return of the King is a simple bandage on the wounds of a Nation infected by such trauma. It will be a long and tireless process, one that Noctis is more than willing to accept. But he would like one moment's peace before it begins— quietly, in the shambles of a diner with his best friend. 

They sit down with their meal, which is little more than jerky, and settle into the silence of the once-diner. The dusty booth beneath them creaks until Prompto shifts and pulls a wrapped straw from the seat next to him. He puts it on the table with a small laugh.

“Not gonna shoot me this time?” 

“Shooting the King, dude? Bad press...”

Laughing, Noctis sets the straw further off to the side and stares down at their small container of jerky. He's not hungry, stomach too busy twisting in knots about the questions all left swimming in his head. Prompto would normally ease the sheer amount of them, but now Noctis wonders if he just poses more, about the  _ what now's _ and  _ what if's _ . He's had ten years to think about it and still isn't sure they've found the courage to figure it out. 

The time passes, numbers on Prompto’s cracked phone screen ticking higher, and they catch up through the thick haze of words unspoken. Prompto tells Noctis of the Endless Night, of that which they called The World of Ruin. He clearly tries to stay positive about it all, focusing on Ignis and Gladio and Talcott— their friends— the ones who survived— and all they did to help the people and bring Noctis home. He stays away from the parts that start to put a waiver in his voice and Noctis doesn’t push for them. It isn’t the time for such things. And as the hour drags on, numbers steadily growing, Prompto begins to watch the window more closely.

He checks his phone, glancing at the time with a crease in his brow. Noctis watches as he picks at his fingers and looks to the window, repeatedly, eyes on the still-dark horizon past the buildings. There’s a nervousness to his features and his movements that’s all too telling and Noctis realizes, with a sinking heart, that he’s still not expecting the sun to rise. 

“Prom,” he says, quietly. Prompto’s head whips back from the window. His eyes are tired in a way that Noctis doesn’t remember them being, but still so,  _ so  _ blue. “It’ll come back. I promise.” 

"It was ten  _ years _ , Noct," Prompto whispers back. "Everything is just kinda hard to believe, still." 

"I know." It's all Noctis can offer.

"I still feel like I'm talking to a ghost."

Again. “I know.”

Silence falls between them and it’s heavy, not comfortable like it used to be. It weighs on Noctis’ chest, strangles his heart. He wonders if the ten years absence has set them back to tiptoeing over hot coals. If Prompto hasn't already put out that fire and moved on, tired of tending to it for ten years of empty promises. 

"Are we still…?"

"Friends?"

"More than that…?" Noctis grinds out, terrified of the answer. 

"I still… love you, Noct. No amount of time is gonna change that. Ever."

“I love you, too— Prom,” Noctis whispers. “I always have, I just— there’s always been  _ too much _ — I never thought it was a good time, but I’m tired of  _ waiting _ .” 

Prompto breathes.

“Okay, good— because I’ve waited a  _ really _ fucking long time for this—”

Prompto surges forward and brushes his lips over the corner of Noctis' mouth. As he does, he catches sight of the morning light beginning to peak between buildings, but instead closes his eyes to the second sunrise in ten years in favor of Noctis. 

Ten years for the sunrise. 

Longer for the feeling of Noctis' mouth against his. 

His fist balls in the fabric of Noctis' garments, a death grip, a leash, an anchor— anything to keep him present and ground them in a moment that has seemed like nothing more than a dream for more than a decade. There’s an eager, almost-terror in their motions, quick and breathy and a little messy, but Prompto doesn’t want more than a moment away from something he’s  _ wanted _ for so long.

When they pull away, Noctis is framed by the rising sun trickling through the broken window, a mosaic of light patched just right against the King and his tired eyes. It's stupid picture-perfect, all warm and yellow and pink, but Prompto can't be bothered to pull his camera around. Instead he just stares, drinking in the growing heat and the rising light and the face of a ghost he begged the gods to  _ give back _ . 

He leans forward and kisses Noctis again. 

And again— until he’s sure the sun and Noctis have returned for good.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: This story now has some really adorable artwork by [MysteriousBean!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysteriousBean/pseuds/MysteriousBean) which you can find [right here!](https://twitter.com/CarrieVogel5/status/1215014739383746561)


End file.
